Breaking the Beast on Ice

Harper “He’s a savage, Dad. You’re asking me to tie my name to a man who belongs in a cage, not a jersey. We’re talking engagement here, and not just modeling a product together!” I stand in my father’s cavernous office, my hands quivering so violently I have to shove them well into the pockets of my tailored Chanel suit jacket. Who am I kidding? It’s a total mask. The media loves to call me the "Heartless Heiress," a cold, untouchable socialite who can’t feel a thing. A recent incident has proven it to the press, and they love every minute of my downfall. Pictures and videos should not lie. Right? Ice Queen. Heartless Heiress. For everyone else, I’m a cold and untouchable socialite who does not know how to feel, except disdain. Right now, I’m furious at what my dad is spouting. Grant Holloway’s voice is flat, completely exhausted, and sagging under the immense weight of our multi-million-dollar sports empire. He doesn't look like the powerful billionaire owner of the franchise right now; he looks like a man floundering. I am not used to seeing my dad this way, but I don’t like that he’s pushing me to do something I will completely hate. Why even try? He has other business under his helm. “Silas Vane just broke a defenseman’s jaw in a pre-season scrimmage yesterday. The sponsors are fleeing. The league board is meeting as we speak, looking for any legal grounds to permanently ban him from the NHL. This isn’t a request, Harper. It’s a survival tactic. An order. You have to do it for the team, and for our family. Vane may be a beast, but we need him.” “A fake engagement?” I let out a rough, humorless laugh which echoes piercingly against the high ceilings. I finally look at him, my eyes wide with disbelief. “With him? Silas Vane doesn't even talk to people, Dad. He growls, and somehow, women come to him. He doesn't do press, he doesn't do charity, and he certainly doesn't do relationships. He just breaks things. He breaks people.” “Do I?” The heavy double doors of the office don't just open; they are completely invaded. Silas Vane fills the entire doorway, 6 foot five of raw, quiet, and terrifyingly masculine aggression. He doesn't carry himself with the loud, arrogant, chest-puffing swagger of the other hockey players on the roster. Silas doesn't need to make noise to command a room. He has a lethal reputation, known across the entire league as 'The Butcher' on the ice. His scent hits me before his gaze even does. It’s a distinct, dominant wave of cold arena ice, expensive cologne, and a hint of the sharp winter air sticking to his dark hair and heavy stubble. Yes, this man’s winter, and I am ice. It’s further proof that being associated with him will only mean destruction. For both of us. He’s wearing a dark, custom-tailored suit that looks like it’s actively struggling to contain the sheer breadth of his shoulders and the thick, dense muscle of his chest. It looks like he dressed up for this occasion: my life falling apart. He doesn't even glance in my father’s direction, disrespectful s**t that he is. His hazel eyes are sharp, predatory, and completely unblinking, locking directly onto mine. The temperature in the room feels like it drops ten degrees in an instant. He walks toward me, his movements slow, heavy, and terrifyingly deliberate, until he stops right in front of me. He is so close that I can literally feel the heat rolling off his massive frame, casting a shadow that completely engulfs me whole. “I heard you like managing things, Harper,” he rasps. “But I’m not some neat little project you can fix with a PR script and a couple of smiling photos. You can’t even help yourself.” Rage burns inside me, and I can’t even do anything about it, not really, not with my dad present, anyway. I tilt my head back, forcing myself to look straight into his eyes, completely refusing to flinch or take a step backward under his suffocating gaze. If I break now, he’ll own me for the rest of the year. Damn. He’ll probably own me, anyway. “And I’m not a hockey puck you can slap against the boards when you’re having a tantrum, Silas. You’re here. It means you need me.” Silas’s jaw tightens, a hard muscle leaping in his cheek. His gauge dilates until his hazel eyes turn almost completely dark with fury. Before I can even register the movement, he reaches out. His hand, scarred across the knuckles, heavily tattooed down the wrist, and large enough to completely swallow both of mine, grips the back of my neck. My breath catches sharply in my throat. He doesn't squeeze, and he doesn't hurt me, but the sheer, unyielding dominance in the gesture is obvious. His palm is incredibly hot and anchors me where he wants me. He leans down, tilting his head until his lips are mere inches from my ear. “Careful now, Vane,” my father warns. Oh, so, he’s protecting me now? Doesn’t he see he’s pushing me toward this - this monster? Silas stops only a moment before he turns his attention back to me. “You think your reputation is ruined because of a bad press cycle, Heiress?” he whispers, his breath heated and dangerous against my neck. “You have no idea what kind of actual darkness runs within my veins. I’m a beast, Miss Holloway. I live in the dark, and I don’t play pretend for the cameras.” A shiver runs straight down my spine, my heart pounding away a frantic, erratic rhythm. But I force my features to remain unfazed. Then, glare back at him. “Then we’re a perfect match, Silas. Because the world already thinks I’m the ultimate villain anyway. I might as well have a monster standing by my side.” “I will leave the two of you to it. Talk your strategy points. Then, report to me. Both of you,” Dad says, before leaving me alone with a damn monster. The door opens and then shuts, and yes, I am alone with Silas Vane. Silas pulls back just a fraction of an inch, his heavy gaze lowering down to my mouth for a split second. It’s a trace of hunger so raw, sudden, and heavy that it feels akin to a physical touch, delivering a jolt straight to my stomach. “Fine,” he growled out, finally turning his head toward my father’s desk, though he doesn't break eye contact with me for even a second. “I’ll wear your diamond ring. I’ll stand there and do your stupid press conferences. I’ll play the doting fiancé. But she lives with me. My penthouse. My rules. No exceptions.” My breath instantly hitches, and I try to pull away from his clutch, yet his fingers tighten just enough to keep me perfectly still. “What? No. That wasn't part of the agreement.” “It’s the only way the cameras buy it,” Silas interrupts, his voice dropping back down to a dangerous, possessive breath that cuts right through my protest. He takes a massive step more deeply into my personal space, his physical presence completely overwhelming me, forcing me to retreat, step by step, until the small of my back hits the cold, solid glass of the floor-to-ceiling office window. He doesn't stop until he’s caging me in entirely. One massive arm comes up, his palm slamming flat against the glass right beside my head, trapping me between the cold city skyline behind me and the absolute wall of solid muscle in front of me. I can smell his cologne, heavy and intoxicating, engulfing my senses until I can’t even think straight. He leans down again, his eyes drilling into mine, making a wordless promise of absolute, unmitigated war. “Pack your bags, Heiress,” he whispers, his lips practically touching mine as he speaks the words. “Welcome to the cage.” He pulls away abruptly, the sudden loss of his heat making the cold air of the office rush back over my skin. He turns on his heel and walks out of the office without saying another word to either of us, the heavy, quiet pound of his designer boots resounding like a terrifying countdown down the long hallway. I stand there, my breath comes in short, uneven gasps as I realize my new frightening reality. I haven’t just agreed to a simple PR stunt or a fake engagement to save our franchise. I have just walked willingly into the arms of the one man who possesses the power to truly, completely destroy me. Suddenly, a sharp, violent, vibrating buzz cuts through the hush of the room, coming from inside my jacket. I pull my quivering hand out of my pocket and slide my phone out. The screen is already lit up with dozens of rapid-fire notifications. I look down, and my blood runs completely cold. A notification flashes from a major sports gossip blog: the very first "leaked" photo of Silas caging me against the office window, perhaps taken from the street below through the glass, has already hit the web. It hasn't even been two minutes. So, that’s what it’s all about, trapping me so close to the window. I scroll down with a numb thumb, reading the very top comment, which already has thousands of likes: “The Ice Queen and The Butcher. Someone’s going to end up dead by the end of this.”